In Need of a Holiday
by Fire Bear1
Summary: John and Sherlock have received tickets to a spa and hotel. How well will a holiday with Sherlock go for John?


_**So, for my friend's birthday, she organised an "art gallery" type thing where we could all create something and showcase it. She allowed writing (which I am good at; artsy stuff, not so much) and she loves Sherlock and so I wrote this. I decided it was gonna be a one-shot and so that explains the length of it.**_

* * *

John looked down at the vouchers. A free weekend away from London might do the both of them some good. After all, he needed a rest after this last case. "Sherlock? You don't have any cases to solve this weekend, right?"

"Not at the moment. Why?" Sherlock replied with disinterest, already curled up in his chair and gazing at his laptop. He tapped a button a few times and his eyes flickered across the screen.

"Well, the Masons gave us these vouchers for a weekend at a hotel and spa just outside London. Would you like to go?" John didn't hold out much hope that Sherlock would say yes but he thought that, even if Sherlock said no, he could go himself. Perhaps he could take Mary with him.

"Which spa?" asked Sherlock in the same tone.

John looked back at the vouchers. "Hm, The White Horse Farms."

"Are you sure?" Sherlock said, looking up at John. The doctor could see a familiar glint in the detective's blue eyes and a sense of foreboding began to creep over him.

"Uh, yes. Why does that matter?"

"No reason," said Sherlock, looking back down at his laptop. "If you want to go, then I won't stop you, John."

"Right. Well. Are you wanting to come along or...?"

Sherlock looked up at him, not seeing him. He was thinking about something. "Hm, yes, why not?" he said before returning to look at the laptop. John sighed. So much for him taking Lizzie to the hotel instead...

* * *

A few days later, John dragged the bags from the taxi they had gotten from the station and dropped them onto the ground with a grunt. He was fuming; the journey from London had been a stressful one. He dreaded having to repeat it on the return journey.

However, it _did_ appear to be worth the wait. A gentle breeze blew across his brow and he sighed with relief. The treetops waved and the sun created a golden glow on the old building's brickwork. He leaned over and picked up the bags again, hauling them towards the door.

"Oh, I'll take those, sir," said a porter with a smile. "You're here to relax and it's our job to make that happen." He grabbed the bags' handles and had them away from John before he could protest.

"Ah. Yes. Thanks," said John as the man walked away. Then he looked round to find Sherlock. He was nowhere in sight and the taxi was already leaving. John frowned. Where the heck had the detective got to? Deciding he had probably already gone inside whilst he wasn't looking, John headed to reception. Inside, he handed over the vouchers just as Sherlock came hurrying in.

"Where were you?" John asked with a deeper frown.

"Just... looking around."

Before John could say anything else, the receptionist looked up at them. "So would you like the honeymoon suite or just a double?"

John's eyes widened slightly and shook his head in denial. _Not again... _"Ha. No. No, we're not a couple."

"Oh. Well. A room with twin beds, then?"

John glanced at Sherlock. "Is there a chance we could get separate rooms?"

* * *

John sat in the sauna, relaxed. He had no idea where Sherlock was and, mostly, he was at ease. However, a small voice at the back of his mind was telling him that something was amiss if Sherlock had disappeared. Occasionally he would glance towards the door of the sauna. Then he would remind himself that Sherlock was probably just cooped up in his room.

There were two other men in the sauna, talking to each other about their wives. One was burly and large-set. The other was skinny, his glasses sitting on his covered lap. He wondered briefly if he should speak to them but then decided just to sit back and relax.

He didn't have long to do that, though, as the door was slammed into the wall. All three men blinked in surprise and sat up. Standing, fully clothed in his suit, in the doorway was Sherlock. He looked excited and John felt a sinking feeling.

"Sherlock...?" said John, hesitantly.

"John! What are you doing? Come on!" Sherlock rushed in and grabbed John's hand before he could protest. As he dragged the doctor out, John had barely enough time to catch the towel he had been wrapped in before he was exposed to the world. The detective, meanwhile, didn't notice and dragged his companion through the hotel and into the kitchen. There, some bemused cooks watched as the two men barged in before returning to their work.

"Sherlock..." said John, irritated.

"Listen, John, a few months ago a girl went missing from this hotel. Now, I was making inquiries when I spoke to the head chef here who was around at the-"

"Sherlock!" exclaimed John. Once he had Sherlock's attention, he pulled his hand away from the tight grip and straightened his towel. "We're here to _relax_, you know. And... If we're doing this, at least let me get dressed first!"

Sherlock glanced down at John's towel. "We have no time for you to look pretty – we need to talk to that chef again!"And he once again grabbed John's hand and pulled him off to do so.

The chef was a large man who had red cheeks either from drinking or the heat of the kitchen. His hair wasn't visible and he may have been bald but it was hard to be sure with his chef's hat firmly stuck on his head. His white clothes were faded and worn but were still scrubbed clean. He looked up at them when they entered his workspace. He put down his knives and came over, a sombre expression on his face.

"Can you take us to the spot you saw the girl?" asked Sherlock without introducing them. The chef nodded and headed to the back door of the kitchen. Sherlock followed, tugging at John to make him follow. John did so – and soon regretted it.

The door led to the back of the hotel. There was a cold wind now and it whipped at his bare legs and arms. He shivered. "Sherlock..." he began. However, the detective had forged ahead and John could do nothing but follow.

They headed towards a shed beside the exit and the chef unlocked it. The chef held the door open for them and let them head inside. Sherlock almost bounded inside. John went in a lot more calmly, rubbing at his arms to warm himself up. Sherlock looked around and John gazed around at the tools – if this was where a missing girl was last seen, it was highly likely that she had been murdered. Though what exactly was going on was beyond him.

It was a large shed and, as Sherlock headed further in, John examined a hoe which he found on the worktop which ran the length of the building, looking for blood. He was interrupted by an odd noise from the direction of the door, rather like an 'oof'. With a frown, he glanced towards the chef and spotted him lying on the ground. "Sherlock!" called John as he hurried towards the man.

He had only taken a few steps, however, when he saw the door swinging shut. His eyes widened slightly in surprise and he hurried to get there first. But a sudden pain in his foot stopped him and, wincing, he limped to a stop. The door shut and the light they had been seeing by was snuffed out. There was a noise of a bolt being put across and the padlock being snapped back on.

John limped to where he remembered the worktop to be and leaned against it. He listened as he heard shuffling and scraping. There were clangs and thuds as though things were being knocked over. Finally, there was a small click and a light flickered into life. John blinked and looked towards the front of the shed. Sherlock was standing there, holding onto a cord which had obviously turned on the small bulb.

"Come over here, John. I have an idea on how to get out of here," he said once he spotted his companion.

John limped over, scowling. "I stood on something. I told you I should have gotten changed."

Sherlock looked him over before taking off his suit jacket. "Here," he said, handing it to his friend. "You should put this on."

With a grateful sigh, John pulled it on. He greatly appreciated the warmth of the jacket. _Thank God I'm not here on my own, _he thought. Although, he wasn't sure how much better off he was exactly. "So, how do you think we can get out of here."

Sherlock, however, was looking at something on the worktop and he hurried over to look at it. John stayed where he was, reluctant to put any weight on his injured foot and limp over. "Of course..." he heard Sherlock murmur. "Ingenious." He turned to look at John who stared back at him. "John, look at this. Don't you see, John? John?"

* * *

"John?"

The doctor blinked and glanced across the room at Sherlock who was sitting in his favourite armchair with his laptop. He was frowning at him. John wasn't sure if he was worried or confused. "Yes?" he replied.

"What are you doing?"

John glanced back down at the vouchers in his hand. "Um... Nothing. It doesn't really matter. Cup of tea?"

Sherlock stared back at him so John took it as a yes. He marched into the kitchen and placed the vouchers on the table before he picked up the kettle. He would give them to Mrs. Hudson, he decided. After all, going on holiday probably wouldn't be relaxing...

* * *

_**So, yeah. People will probably say it's a cop out and everything but my friends like it - and these friends were all people who are used to critiquing stuff. The only thing they moaned about was the lack of smut.  
**_

_**So, sorry about that. Sheesh. God, is that **_**all _you can think about? (I jest.)_  
**


End file.
